


Give Them Flowers While You're Able

by TypewriterTitan



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: A Happy Ending For Once, Alcohol-Induced Flirtation, Altered Plot, Crossdressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gardening, Not Natsby, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Troubled pasts, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypewriterTitan/pseuds/TypewriterTitan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all happened before he could call out--before I could move, before anyone could see it coming. In seconds, we were reduced to shivering piles of flesh, my chest heaving, his gone still for all eternity. From where I lay, I could see my garden--my personal Apothecary--speckled with the blood of a man I used to call my boss. My own was steadily dyeing the pool a deep crimson; I clutched at my chest wound with alabaster knuckles and an aching heart. To this day, I don't know who cried out first: me, Gatsby, or the man listening over the phone. If I remember anything clearly from that moment, it was my distinct urge to tend to the roses...</p><p>This one is a happy tale. A grand tale. This is the story of how I came to know James Gatz, more commonly known as the Great Gatsby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Apprenticeship In the Valley of Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Great Gatsby in any way, shape, or form.   
> (All characters you've never heard of before have spawned from my own brain, though, so stay in your lane, k?)

The painted, empirical eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg stands vigil and reproachful over the Valley of Ashes, their intensity muted only by the gold-rimmed glasses that guarded them. Each day, they watched the sad, rickety boxcars rattle to and fro, from oblivion to oblivion. When the train made stops in the Valley, no one ever came aboard, a bright ticket to the American dream bunched tightly in their fist. No, no one whoever dwelled in that swirling sinkhole of a town ever fathomed the thought of leaving. Even those that did manage escape would, without fail, come crawling back. Everyone knew, as soon as they took the first stop onto the platform, as soon as they choked on the dank air, as soon as they gazed into the unsympathetic eyes of God, that all tickets were one way. This was not a rest stop for the impending voyage; this was not a detour.

Just like the waiting jaws of Hell, the Valley of Ashes is a final destination.

The dreary specters that littered the streets like vermin made a poor living, slept under a poor roof, and were the tellers of poor lies—most often, to themselves. Most don’t hop off the train with evaporated resolve. Why, most are optimists through and through, calling a glass half full when there’s only a drop of water within it. However, reality is a ravenous beast, steadily gnawing, gnawing, gnawing away, eating the meat and spitting out the bones, sucking the soul dry until all that’s left is an empty husk.

I record my account of this tale with the ink of another; a gift from a dear friend I’ve come across along my journeys and hold close to my heart. This aforementioned friend has remarked on numerous occasions that writing, for him, is a cathartic experience, one that’s proven time and time again to relieve his stress and dispel long-held burdens. As of right now, I find that I have no real qualms, nor do I harbor anymore burdens—none alone, at least.

Given how long those tired, tried eyes had peered through my window pane, I think it appropriate to shed a few rays of well-deserved sunshine on my little Valley. This one is a happy tale. A grand tale.  
This is the story of how I came to know James Gatz, more commonly known as the Great Gatsby.

**~G~**

It was half past noon when my own rusted train came to a halt, plumes of smoke creating more dingy circles in the air. I would be informed later on that, often, at least five or six people (families, friends, and the like) would arrive together, but my ride was a lonesome one. I quietly sat in an empty car for what felt like hours of sporadic jerks and bumps, hoping against hope that this decision was not in vain. Stepping off the platform and observing the surrounding hovels, my hands calloused and full; my left carrying a knapsack hurriedly stuffed with clothes, smell-goods, and other run of the mill necessities, my right clutching an address written in perfect chicken scratch.

The valley was nowhere near as quiet as I had imagined. All day, there was a steady hum of activity: the squelch of beggars shining shoes, the bloodcurdling wails of children being chastised by their mothers, and the raised voices of couples once again on the verge of bankruptcy. No matter how incredulous the clamor became, it all fell into the same rhythm.

While walking, I felt more than a few pairs of eyes land on me, drilling holes in the back of my mothball-ridden coat. Some were curious about the town’s newest resident, others looked more sympathetic to my implied misfortunes. Either way, none cared to approach me; I heard a course voice shout into the atmosphere, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!” To this day, I don’t know if this was directed toward me alone or if it was a general statement for all to heed.

Several times, I meandered into strangers’ front yards, believing I had arrived at the right house. They all looked so depressed and ill-treated, each home seemed to blend into the other. Finally, I supposed I had reached the right place when I caught sight of a soot-covered man working arduously on a Model T Ford clad in a wife beater and torn overalls. He sighed, pulling away from his current project to take a swig pop and wipe his brow with an equally soot-covered rag. The man’s eyes widened happily upon my approach, gulping down the last of his soda before meeting me half way.

“Good afternoon to you, sir,” I said, attempting to shake his hand as firmly as he did mine. It was only after my palm looked as black as midnight that I realized that rag hadn’t done its good job in the least. “I’m August Evatt—I applied for the apprenticeship, if you can recall.”

“If I can recall,” he mocked, howling at the hint of uncertainty I approached him with, “It’s about time you got here, sonny!” He was a good head taller than me, with dusty hair and bushy brows. When he laughed, his eyes creased with a genuine joy and familiarity that I found myself growing more and more fond of with each passing moment. 

“The name’s George Wilson, but I ‘spose you already knew that. Boy, you don’t know how thankful I am to have a second pair of hands in the shop: this old man’s bones are getting too wobbly to depend on, I’m afraid. I didn’t think for a second that anyone would notice my little ole ad in the paper, let ‘lone respond to it. Cost me a pretty penny, too, but that’s beside the point.”

I took off my cap to scratch my head, letting out a sheepish chuckle. “In all honest, sir, I probably wouldn’t have seen it—never quite took up the hobby of reading the morning paper, and I don’t think I’ll be starting any time soon. Besides, I don’t live around these parts.”

“Yes, noticed you had to take a train. How did you find out, then?”

“Someone I know lives in the area; he knew I was wanting to live someplace different, so to speak. He offered his own home, but I knew I’d feel guilty if I wasn’t earning my keep. Instead, he listed some of the jobs he thought I might like over the telephone, and when I picked this one, he told me the address, bought my ticket, and wished me Godspeed. When I scrape up a little more money, I plan to pay him back with interest. Carraway’s his name, if you’ve heard of it. He’s a good man”

“A good man, indeed!” Slowly, as if an important fact just resurfaced in his head, the smile began to slip from his lips, forming an apologetic grin. With that same expression, he clapped a hand on my shoulder. For an older man, he had the vicelike grip of an industrial claw. “I’m sorry to tell you this, son, but business has been a li’l slow these days—slower than usual, that is—so the pay won’t be anythin’ to write home abou-”

I held up a hand with a knowing smirk. I knew the money conversation had to rear its ugly mug some time or another. “On the contrary, sir. If nothing else were offered to me, I’d be just fine with the room and board. I have a bit of cash on me, so if push comes to shove, I have enough to make ends meet.”

“Thank you for understanding, Mr. Evatt. The wifey ain’t here at the moment, so you’ll have to wait to meet her until she comes back. I know she’ll love to see a new face round here. Meantime, you can go ahead and take the room on the left upstairs. Shimmy into somethin’ you can work in and shoot on back here so I can show you the ropes.” I grunted my thanks before doing as I was told, stuffing the address in my pocket as I went.

**~G~**

The rest of the evening proved rather uneventful ‘til nightfall; George ushered me around the room that functioned as his ever spacious garage and place of work. I was given free reign until supper; I spent this time walking the perimeter of the house, occasionally scuffing my boots and kicking away gravel in an absentminded search for suffocating plants. I had just uncovered a small clover patch when I smelled food wafting through the window panes. I was greeted by my bright-eyed employer with a smock tied loosely around his hips, his hands now covered in herbs and seasonings. Rather than wash his hands, he unabashedly licked his fingers clean before passing me a plate, bellowing, "Soup's on!"

Sitting like manna on the dish before me was a hearty helping of steak and potatoes; both were slightly overdone, but when eating with an empty, hunger is a powerful seasoning. Making my initial incision into the meat with renewed vigor, I managed to mumble a compliment to his cooking abilities before digging in. "No problem, August. Can't take all the credit, though: the Missus left me the recipe 'fore she left. The old gal can be a doll when she wants to be."

"You mentioned your wife earlier. Miss...?"

"Myrtle. A feisty one, that woman. Don't always remember why I put up with her, but she keeps the coals under my feet burnin' hot." He ladled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, not pausing to savor the taste in the least bit. I tried my darndest to mimic this behavior, but it only resulted in a lungful of gravy. I sputtered and coughed 'til tears came to my eyes. "Y'alright there, son?"

"Y-Yes," I wheezed, wiping my mouth with a napkin, "I-I'm fine...This Myrtle sounds like quite the woman."

"She sure is; a woman with expensive tastes, to boot. I don't know how, but whenever she goes out like this, it always seems she comes back with a new hairpin, or a new dress. Says she just knows how to make a dollar stretch. I don't doubt she manages cash better than me, but it still seems a bit too..." He twirled his fork in thought, the word obviously on the tip of his tongue.

"...Convenient?" I offered.

"Yes, boy! It's all too convenient to stumble across some money; it's too convenient to have just enough when you need it. Then again, if woman's best friend is diamonds, I'm sure they'd find a way to stay in contact." Pretending to be the perpetually aloof man, I shrugged my shoulders and continued my meal. The quiet atmosphere still felt tense, so I chanced asking a risky question that I shouldn't have.

"Mr. Wilson," I began. He immediately looked up with a terse, coy gleam in his eyes. "It's George, August. Call me George."

"Of course. Then, George, where is Myrtle right now?" All traces of teasing were dropped from his face and, disregarding his imminent answer, his lost expression and lack of an immediate answer told me that we both knew she could be anywhere. Yes, as we dined in that tiny shack of a house, Myrtle Wilson, his fiery, beautiful wife, could be God-Knows-Where. It was a fleeting, cruel thought, but I pondered suggesting that he ask T.J. Eckleberg for her whereabouts. Out of all the worldly men on Earth, surely _he_ would know. 

"She's off visiting family in New York—a sister? Brother, maybe...?" He trailed off, squinting at the potatoes before him with unparalleled intensity. Despite his sour exterior, George's voice was consistent and soft, saying everything as if even he didn't want to hear it. After a deafening silence, I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to the draw.

George stood from the table with a sigh too troubled to be lighthearted and a smile too forced to be true. "Well," he said airily, cleaning up his mess, "it sure was a pleasure talkin' to you, August. We'll get to steppin' at six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."

I rose and he shook my hand. His smile didn't reach his eyes, and neither did mine. Long after he had made his departure, I remained just a while longer, picking gristle out of my teeth and silently considering the life I had decided to take on.

**~G~**

It was as I was about to retire that I made a rather strange discovery. There were three doors upstairs: the first, which was definitely mine, the second, which I had presumed to be a restroom, and the third, which I had presumed to be the room shared by George and his wife. George had entered the second door, his snores practically shaking the floorboards. Of course, this aroused my curiosity: what lies behind door number three?

Before barging in like a child, I made sure to make some preparations in my own room (if you can't tell, my nosiness has gotten me into trouble before). The most important rule of espionage is stealth, so I deftly removed my working boots and sat them softly against my door frame. Next, I removed keys, coins, and anything else on me that could make a noise. Finally, I invented my excuse: when I first came upstairs, I had gone into the wrong room, and I was positive I had dropped something in there.

Hushed as a lamb, I slunk through the hall, opening the third door with an eerie screech.  _You forget a rule,_ I chided myself,  _always oil the hinges._ For a brief moment, I heard George's sleepy breath hitch; I didn't dare to move a limb. Soon after, he sneezed, and the snoring continued, as did my investigation.

Lighting a candle, the room turned out to be as I thought: Myrtle's. Though it struck me as odd that a man and his wife of twelve years would sleep in separate rooms, what struck me as even odder was the decor. The layout was very similar to mine: the twin bed, the armoire, the bedside lamp. However, her room was as lavish as one could be made on a budget. The room was painted a peeling rouge, expensive-looking cloths tacked proudly on the wall and hewn to the drapes like war prizes. A few items of clothing were strewn about, including underclothes that felt quiet surreal to find in a middle aged woman's wardrobe, let alone my own. Set on the table like trophies were dozens of diamond rings, earrings, and pearl necklaces. Given the little I knew as fact about this Myrtle Wilson, I didn't doubt that she had taken the bulk of her wealth with her, wherever she was.

Curiosity sated, I shut the door, went to my room, and undressed, taking those sparse moments before sleep to survey the walls around me. The room I was provided with was stripped down to the bare amenities: a twin-sized bed with numerous questionable stains; striped, pealing wallpaper; a weathered armoire with three missing knobs; a bedside table, lamp, and chair covered in old cat fur; a vanity mirror, lightly cracked. After a few seconds of silent debate, I stood and decided to look at myself in the mirror, both eager and anxious to see the fruits of my labor.

At that time, I was 20 and 3 years, my olive complexion beginning to clear of acne after what seemed like ages (my cheeks, however, never lost their freckles). A shock of red hair, hacked short and gelled, lay hidden beneath my cap, my chin smooth and for want of facial hair. My lips were chapped and bare, and though this bothered me to no end, I decided against rectifying it. Even beneath my shirt and vest, my slight, narrow frame was prominent; despite its frail and wiry appearance, that body was ready to take on the strain of the lifetime ahead. With a small smirk, I admired my handiwork one last time before flopping back onto my mattress. I really did look like a man.

For the first time in many years,sleep claimed me like a monsoon. With a first day as eventful as that one had been, I knew I had some exciting days ahead of me.

I was not wrong.


	2. Not A Single Damn Customer

The two weeks that followed were lengthy and grueling: the amount of cars in the shop were limited, but the number of repairs needing to be made were more than plentiful. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but the vast majority of our clientele were well-to-do rich folk, most of them pulling up on our poor folk gravel in a practically untouched vehicle for a gratuitous lube job. No matter how simple the task, it seemed everyone would much rather throw money at the problem than attempt to find the root, themselves.

I learned quickly that to tell a customer that a certain fix was unnecessary is virtual suicide; a single threat to find help elsewhere, and George would come running, looking like a dog with his tail between his legs. The aging man would readily pander to their every need, grovelling at their feet to get them to stay, even though I learned just as quickly that all of their threats were void. For as pitiful a living as he head, George was a hard worker and a man of his word—not a single person could rival his finished work, whether they lived in the Valley or either of the Eggs.

The questioning eyes I received the day I had arrived persisted a good while before they began to ebb away. When George would converse with the customer about the impending repairs that were to take place, I’d feel their confused gaze flit to my back as I gathered the tools. On one occasion, a customer specifically requested that I not lay a finger on their car, for they hadn’t travelled all the way out there just to get it mangled further by some “novice stranger”. To say that people are not fond of new faces is an understatement.

On this particular day, George was smiling and rambling to himself a great deal more than usual, working with a feather-light touch he’s never before possessed. I was lacing up my boots when he approached me, obviously brimming with happiness but trying in vain to conceal it. He stood before me and dropped an embroidered piece of fabric into my lap with a grin, sans fanfare. Quizzically, I picked it up and considered it from each angle. In all red lettering, it was printed in a bold font: _AUGUST._

“What’s this?” I asked, carefully tracing my fingertips over each stitch.

“What an ungrateful boy, to ask questions before even givin’ me the day’s greeting,” he tutted, playfully. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? Tell me: what do you _think_ it is?”

“I...,” I fumbled about, twiddling the patch between my fingers. “It’s a nametag…right?”

“Precisely right, my friend.” He had adopted the seat next to me, using an oil-doused rag to stipple his face.

“I appreciate this, George, but…why are you just giving this to me now, of all times?”

“August, in all the time you’ve been here, you may think I don’t notice a whole bunch round here,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “What I have noticed is how you’ve been treated for being a stranger and, well, this seemed to be the easiest way to fix that.” He glanced down at his fingers, and I took notice of the small, fresh scratches and puncture wounds in his course skin. In all likeliness, he had created the nametag himself.

George shrugged sheepishly, belittling his own work. “I realized too late that you never told me your last name, but I thought just August would—”

Without hesitation, I enveloped the man into an abrupt hug. It was short-lived, of course; George pulled away first, but with an honest smile. “I’m glad you liked it, son, and I’m awful fond of you, but a man never hugs another man—no exceptions. Now, let’s get to workin' fore anyone believes that the queer stranger got any queerer. 'Sides, there’s a certain someone that’s been dying to meet you coming over later.”

He gave me a solid, manly pat on the back before he walked away; it nearly knocked the wind out of me, and that smirk of his told me he knew it would. I still sat there when I heard him holler, "You comin', sissy boy?" With a grazed pride and an inexplicable need to prove my faux masculinity, I cleared my throat, pushed up my sleeves, and nodded.

"Yes, sir!"

**~G~**

As expected, someone did come walking up that driveway the same morning; what wasn't expected was the ceremonious aura surrounding them. George and I were working away at the time, replacing a hubcap on yet another perfect car. I noticed his head was somewhere else, right then, as his eyes would drift away from the task at hand and far off into distant space, watching for something-- _waiting_ for something. It was when the rhythmic beating of my hammer was joined with the tried and true chug of the train that I knew why my employer was so excited. 

A pool of people exited the train and stepped onto the platform, breaking off into smaller clusters and going to their own drab houses with the exuberance of schools of dead piranha. All of them appeared to be wearing funeral clothing, most likely their Sunday best, and yet, upon closer inspection, one would find that all of the clothes were once quite colorful. Much like everything else, the colors started to fade, slowly ebbing away into a mournful gray. Every person that walked off that train was an empty husk blown in the wind: all but one.

Like a candle in the darkness, out walked a flaming woman so bright, so intense, she brought color to the cheeks of young schoolboys, attracted the notice of swaths of appreciative men, and blinded those men's wives with jealousy and scorn. Even from afar off, her garb was distinguishable (in hindsight, the outfit was probably just so loud, I could hear it calling out to me amidst all the town's usual ruckus). The woman was a ruby incarnate: Red hair, red hairband, red dress, red lips. Swatches of emerald were thrown in as accents, as well, but overall, she looked redder than a sunset. Even more noticeably, dare I say it, was her shapely figure, enriched by an ample bosom, child-bearing hips, and a switch in her walk that said she knew what she was doing. I hate to admit it, but I couldn't help but feel the slightest bit inadequate.

Or, rather, I  _did_ fell inadequate until a found George to be much more deserving of that title.

"Myrtle!" He called, waving at her with a toothy grin. He had some shmutz on his lip, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. The woman's eyes ( _Myrtle's,_  presumably) widened at his explanation, and she waved back with a grin of her own, albeit a more seductive one. "A new dress, dear?" She hummed her ascent as she drew nearer. George attempted to hug her as soon as she got in range, but the woman dodged it with deft, practiced skill. As compensation, she pressed a hot kiss to his cheek, eyeing me up and down all the while. I was still kneeling next to the front tire, watching the entire ordeal with piqued interest.

Leaving the flustered mechanic to collect himself, the woman approached me next, planting a dainty hand on her hip as she peered down at me with hazel eyes that read minds and tore souls. Considering the spacious quarters of the workshop, she stood unnecessarily and uncomfortably close; I remember the acute stench of men's cologne sticking to her clothes, though I didn't even dream of saying that aloud. She twirled a lock of hair with her fingers, saying coyly, "What's your name, cutie?"

I suddenly realized that, though I had my nametag with me, I had yet to sew it on. In lieu of speech, I awkwardly took it from my back pocket and held it to my chest. " _August._ " She seemed to taste the word, then devour it whole. "Oh, _August._ What a quaint name." Her manicured nails captured my chin, gently guiding me to look up at her. "You must be quite young, boy. Not a bit of stubble anywhere: none here-" she traced my jaw, "or here." She traced right under my nose, her fingers purposefully bumping against my lips. With a wanton, raspy voice, she whispered in my ear, "I bet there isn't even hair _there._ "

With a gulp, I decided that this woman was to be avoided at all costs- if she was as keen on undressing me as she was implying, my cover was as good as blown. With a disappointed sigh, I removed her hand from my face and turned away from her, continuing to work and disregarding her existence altogether; the offended gasp I received in reply assured me my words made the required impression. It was then that George decided to join our introduction-turned-sex line, oblivious to all banter preceding.

"Well, August, this is who I was talkin' 'bout: My wife, Myrtle," he said, pulling the woman flush against him by her waist (to her palpable disdain). "Ain't she pretty?"

Myrtle's eyes bore into mine as I considered my answer. "Awfully so, Mr. Wilson."

"There you go, again, boy! The name's George; I shouldn't have to introduce myself anymore, now."

"Speaking of introductions," Myrtle interjected, giving me one last predatory glare before turning to her husband fully, "there are a few things I wanted to talk to you about. Alone."

Beginning to realize the already strained relationship between his wife and I, George consented to an early, much needed lunch break. This would permit enough time for him and Myrtle to talk, and for me to have some time stress-free.

If only.

**~G~**

For the first item of business, I took a fairly well-deserved shower. An odd thing to do during lunch hour, perhaps, but something I needed nonetheless. The water was cold and unforgiving, pounding incessantly over m small body and forcing scum off body into the drain like holy water and sin. As I toweled off, I looked myself in the mirror with the eye of a craftsman rather than those of a woman. Silently, I trimmed the edges of my hair, as they had threatened to grow back to their former glory over the past few weeks. I found a stash of Myrtle's makeup in a drawer, and I had the fleeting thought of if, in time,  I should ever add a small beard to my facade. Thankfully, I decided against it.

I dressed and was headed downstairs to the kitchen when I heard talk of money, dresses, family visits, and rude queers coming from the stuffed mouths bellow. From the banister, I could see George and Myrtle sitting at the table and having lunch; judging from the amount of finger sandwiches the man had indulged in, George was quite stressed. Several sentences had bubbled up into the rafters, and I felt compelled to conceal myself and listen.

"This? Again?"

"I thought you'd appreciate it; remember last time? It helped, just like I said it would."

"C'mon, honey, I'm no fool. We both know what the problem is; where are you gettin' this- _this_ \- from?" A wad of paper hit the table. That shade of green was unmistakable.

"Sister? Aunt? What does it matter?"

"What does it _matter?_ Myrtle, I love you, and I want to provide for you and keep you safe-"

" _Provide?_ Keep me _safe?_ This business of yours couldn't provide for anyone! I've never seen a single damn customer come in and pay a half-reasonable fee. I don't even know how you get that queer boy of yours to stick around for near nothin'."

"I get business every day, I'll have you know! And keep August out of this, he's just a li'l on the sweet tip!"

On and on, the pair argued and ate, only halting when they heard a knock. "Who could that be?" asked Myrtle.  _A customer,_ I thought, smug. I came out from my hiding place and descended the stairs, pretending to have just gotten out of the shower. Standing at the threshold was an attractive, fit, and clearly rich man; he was at least six feet in height, dark-haired, and was outfitted in a turquoise suit and hat. A 1933 Auburn sat proudly behind him, comically the same color as its master. With his arched, highly esteemed brow lifted high, he acknowledged my existence with a nod as he continued conversing with my employer.

"You've been sayin' you were goin' to bring this puppy for the longest- I nearly forgot how beautiful she was. What's the issue, Tom?"

"That's  _sir,_ Mr. Wilson. It'd do you good to remember I can still drive this someplace else." There was no real conviction in his voice, but George still bit his tongue. Tom's eyes, flitted to a breath-taken Myrtle's, and it looked like the words he wanted to say were stillborn, replaced by something more appropriate. "...A squeaking nose. I hear it every few miles, and it's driving me and my wife insane." Upon hearing the word wife, Myrtle bit her lip.

"That sounds like a problem with the belt to me, sir. We were on our lunch break, but I'll get to workin' on it right away, so you and Daisy can rest assured." I perked up a bit, saying that name in my mind. _Daisy...I know, a Daisy, but who is she?_

Myrtle interjected once again, suggesting that we close up shop and the job wait 'til tomorrow morning. "W-We still have... _much_ to talk about, George." She gave both men a look the other didn't see, and I found that woman had an affection for getting in the way. After talking money for a spell, the two men shook hands (to Tom's dismay).

"Farewell, Mr. Wilson."

"You, too, Mr. Buchanan."

...Buchanan? Daisy _Buchanan!_ Daisy, Nick's cousin! Out of all the people in the world to come here, it was my best friend's cousin-in-law. I elected to wait until George and Myrtle had taken their bickering back into the kitchen to approach him; I was anxious to ask of something, and he was hailing a cab, not noticing me until I tugged on his coat sleeve.

"Sir, I-"

 _"What?"_ I felt like a child, crushed under his booming voice. Squaring my shoulders, I continued.

"I recognized your name, and...you're married to a woman named Daisy, correct?"

"Yes. What about her, boy?" I could tell from the way he was looking me up and down that if I said the wrong thing, he wouldn't hesitate to break me in half.

"It's not about your wife, Mr. Buchanan; she has a cousin named Nick, and from what I understand, he currently lives in the East Egg. We're old friends, and I was wondering if you had his telephone number."

He slapped me on the shoulder as the subject switched from his wife to Nick, boasting, "Oh, why didn't you say so sooner! I have more than his number, I have his address; in fact, I'm to go out to town with him in a week's time. I doubt a Valley rat would have the money to travel all that way, but if it's for Nick, I'm willing to drive him-"

"Don't!" I exclaimed, interrupting his one good deed per month speech and speedily earning his ire. "Please, don't bring Nick around here: don't even mention that someone asked of him. Leave me his number and address, I want to surprise him. He'll be delighted."

Once again, he raised an eyebrow at me, dismissing my declaration of friendship with a sigh of 'whatever suits you'. Nevertheless, he wrote down the information with immaculate penmanship. However, no rich man gets rich by doing good things for free of course.

He revealed from behind his back a bouquet of roses, beautifully arranged and as blood red as the woman they were meant for. "This is a Colombian Garden rose," I said, carefully taking them into my hands. "They'll grow splendidly, even in this climate."

"The breed doesn't matter. What matters is that you get these flowers get to the missus straightway."

"Miss Myrtle?"

"Are you deaf, boy? Yes!" A cab had finally come to Tom's aid, and I was left with a bundle of flowers, Nick's whereabouts and contact information, and a stream of threats if I didn't uphold my part of the bargain that was curtailed by the speeding away of the cab. Needless to say, I planted the roses behind the house in some shade. Myrtle never heard a word of it.

Though I was eager to hear Nick again, I decided to wait until morning to speak to him again. When we spoke, I wanted to be well-rested and able to speak about anything, and guessing from the riotous "discussion" I heard emanating from upstairs, that wasn't happening until the rest of the household had called it a night. 


	3. Night Terrors

I awoke early the next morning coated in a thin layer of sweat; screams I don't recall trying to utter tore from my lips and clawed against my throat, rubbing it raw. My heart sputtered erratically, trying with a singular vigor to bludgeon my rib cage to death. Taking several sharp breaths, I sat up and surveyed the room around me, only to see it spinning, the walls bending shape, contorting into a foggy, distant image of a pair of eyes. The image didn't begin to clear, like I had prayed-in fact, my own eyes dimmed the room so horribly, I realized my sight had left me. A deep, bubbling fear rose within me, a panic-stricken mania left long repressed. Tears welling, I wailed for help in the infinite dark, feeling palpable solitude like a spit in the face.

The following minutes passed like hours, and I was quite convinced that, at any given moment, I could very well just die, life slipping away like a thief in the night. Finally, as I sat there, a sniveling, tremulous mess, my heartbeat began to wane, returning to a healthier rhythm, and my eyes, gradually, had the good sense to see again. I didn't know what to make of this miracle, though I had an educated guess as to the cause of my misfortune. Without warning, the door creaked open, the hallway's artificial light seeping into the room. George's illuminated head peered inside, a look of concern etched in his features. At that moment, I was thankful for both the shreds of darkness and my comforter; my chest wasn't bound, and though I wasn't as curvaceous as my employer's wife, I still had enough to be considered rather buxom for a man.

"You alright, there, August? I heard your hollerin', thought you were in some sort of trouble..." When George made a move to fully enter, I involuntarily tensed, spewing an objection. "I'm fine," I said, "Really. I had a nightmare, that's all." He didn't come in, but I could feel his eyes give me a once-over imbued with pity. Even though the rest of my body was covered, my hands, which were clutching the covers close to my chest, were visibly shaking. I had to look like a rambling heap.

"Are you sure you don't need anything, son?"

"I told, sir-"

"George."

"George, I'm perfectly fi-" At this time, my disturbed stomach decided to disagree with me. Mid sentence, a dose of vomit filled my mouth and dribbled onto my shirt.

George gave a sigh and a small smirk, the universal sign of I-told-you-so. "If you need me, I'll be downstairs making some coffee. I don't think either of us'll be gettin' much more sleep tonight." Before he left, he gave me one last glance. "You may want to clean yourself up first." He winked, leaving the door slightly cracked so I could see.

When I was certain he was gone, I stripped from my shirt (for, foolishly, that was all I had decided to wear that night) and took a long, cold shower. The chilling water pelted me awake, but when I looked in the mirror, bloodshot eyes and a haggard face greeted me. Seeing no other appropriate attire, I donned my work clothes and, before heading downstairs, had the mind to check my sheets. A moist, spread palm ascertained my fears. I had pissed the bed. Like a child. I shoved the sheets into my bag, making a mental note to scrub them personally.

 As promised, George sat hunched over a steaming mug at the dinner table. Whatever shreds of pep he had felt upstairs had seemed to have seeped out of him during his commute; when I walked past him, the "coffee" he claimed he was going to make was replaced by herbal tea, the liquid lullaby of beverages. He closed his eyes as he took each long sip, letting out a contented hum as he stared into oblivion. In the back of my head, I considered having a cup of tea as well, hoping to calm my nerves, but the thought of falling back asleep was too much a deterrent. Seeing as George had no conversation to offer me, I took it upon myself to inquire about another alternative to quell my pains.

With my back turned to him, I peered inside of various cabinets and drawers, asking in a worn voice, "Do you have any liquor?"

I felt George's eyes boring into my spine with a concern that bordered paternal--yet he remained as quiet as a mouse. I saw no real need for his concern: being the grown, sober-minded adult I was, I felt I was perfectly capable of holding down my poison. "I'm not asking for a vodka stash," I relent, "but a swig of alcohol would help to settle my stomach a bit."

Gravely, he drained his mug with a single gulp, rubbing at his eyes as he shook his head. "I'm a law-abidin' citizen, boy. It's my prayer that you are, too." With an embarrassed apology, I contented myself with a flat soda. Yet again, we plunged into silence.

Shortly thereafter, I heard George's chair give an abrupt screech as he stood, a loud yawn passing his lips as he stretched. Cracking a smile, he tousled my hair, "Would you look at the time? I'll try hittin' the sack one more time before gettin' to work...The wifey doesn't like to sleep alone, you know." A gave a shallow chuckle in mock understanding, though I knew there separate bedrooms said otherwise. "God forbid, sir."

He made it halfway up the stairwell before glancing back at me. "You seem a lot calmer now, but do you need any time off? With all the hours you've worked here, you've more than earned it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," I beamed, in earnest, "Besides, today's payday." Of course, we traded another laugh and George wished me a good night (though it should have been an early 'good morning') before disappearing into his bedroom and shutting the door.

**~G~**

As any medical doctor can tell you, caffeine is not an effective sedative. I found in a matter of minutes that my knee began jerk and jitter without my consent. I began to pace the kitchen, wringing my hands and not knowing what's caused my stress nor how to relieve it. Taking a seat, I took some deep breaths and tried not to repeat the episode I had awoken to.  _Why is this happening to me?_  I felt as if every fiber of my being was pulsing, and the worst part of the experience was the feeling wasn't brand new. I had gone through this weeks before, and I'd conquered it--but how? **  
**

My savior came in the crinkling sounds emitting from my overall's right pocket; in all the days excitement, I'd forgotten what Mr. Buchanan had provided me with. I had Nick's number at my disposal.

Nick'snumber.

_Nick._

Just that thought gave me peace, somewhat. Taking out the piece of paper and dialing, I resolved to call him and utterly disregard the early hour. If I knew him half as well as I thought I did, he either wouldn't mind me interrupting his slumber or be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed already. I steadied myself, preparing to engage with the voice on the other side of the phone in as serene a manner as I could muster. This would be the first time I'd heard his voice in years--this conversation should be a happier one.

"Hello?" A male voice with only a hint of grogginess crackled out of the phone.

"Up early, I see. I'd scold you, but I expect nothing less of a former military man."

A brief pause pervaded the sound waves, followed by some muffled shuffling on his side. "E-Excuse me, Miss, I-"

"'Miss'? Is that any way to speak to your superior, Officer?"

_"...Rose?"_

I couldn't help a small smile from blooming on my lips. Oh, how I'd missed that name. "I missed you, too, Nicky."

"Rose... You minx, you had me worried _sick!"_ Nick's voice shed its tired qualities in exchange for a more flustered tone. To be bluntly honest I found it to be quite adorable. "Where are you? Did the train ticket get to you in time? Hell, I had half a mind to called, but your mother just said you'd packed up and left without telling her anything. For all I know, you've walked the whole world over." He ended his tirade with a huff. In the background, I heard the popping of a cork and clinking glasses. The lucky bastard was dousing his troubles in wine while I had to face mine sober.

Even though I'd held my composure thus far, hearing him sound so worried about me (in conjunction with my own nightmarish tremors) reduced me to stinging tears. "You don't know how happy I am to hear your voice again."

Silence. Static. Shuffling.

"...You're still having the flashbacks, aren't you." He stated the question as definitely as a fact, and I gave no reply besides hiccups and shallow breathing. "C'mon, you've got to talk to me: what are you seeing, hearing? What are you feeling?"

I took a deep, shaky breath and answered. "Gunshots. I-I feel a... splitting pain in my head and I-- I smell the gunpowder and the blood and it's making me nauseous..."

"Wonderful, you're doing great. What else?"

Though I struggled to vocalize it, not daring to give my true fears life, I saw the images playing repetitively in my head; the memory I could never shake. A soldier, mere yards before me, killed in combat. I knew him well. _He didn't deserve to die that way..._ "I'm sh-shaking all over; I want to throw up, I want to sleep, I want to stop seeing it over and over... I left to forget, Nick, you said it'd help--and it did help for a while, but... Earlier, I nearly blacked out. Nick, am I going to die?"

Nick, my sole confidant, stomped out my fears with unexpectedly warm, stiff laughter. "Rose, you and I both know that you're far from death. In fact, you're more knowledgeable about health than I'll ever be. And, to be honest, I  _did_ think that a change of scenery would help tremendously, but I also thought you'd be coming here to stay with me." Again, he asked me where I was, now more focused on getting a direct answer. "I want you to keep talking. You always calm down when you're running your mouth."

Ignoring his snide remark, I relayed to him my whereabouts, as well as how long I'd been living with the Wilsons and how I got his number. Like always, he listened to me stammer patiently and intently, commenting every now and then, proving he was immersed. In all, he was quite upset with me for being so near him all this time without as much as a letter. With a roll of the eyes--which, thankfully, he couldn't see--I blew off my friend's motherly chiding, though his expression of caring was always soothing and fresh to me.

"Well," he said, downing another swig of his illegal alcohol of choice, "at least I know where you are, now. I suggest you pack your bags and talk things over with your employer, because I'll be coming over there later and I won't be leaving without a passenger." To this day, I can't believe how he could make such a huge life decision for me so flippantly. In hindsight, it may have been the alcohol.

"Nick! You know I can't leave George like that, he looked all over the place for an apprentice, he can't manage the store by himself."

"He did it before. Hey, if he  _really_ needs help, why not ask his 'Missus' to fill in for you? She seems to be good with her hands."

_"Nick!"_   I covered my mouth with my hand, trying so hard not to wake the women in question with our riotous laughter. As if by magic, I was effectively cured of my hallucinations and tremors.

"Honestly, though, I am coming to get you today, and I am not leaving without you by my side." There was a strange tone in his voice when he made that claim, but I chose to leave it unquestioned. He asked if I was still there, and softly, I sighed.

"...Fine. I'll be waiting for you, so make good on your word." A sudden, obvious thought came to my mind: when he did come, _I would be dressed like a man._

Cheekily, I smiled. "Beware, my friend: I have a little surprise for you when you get here."

He caught my devilish drawl and grew a grin of his own. "Oh, is that so?"

"Yes. You'd do good to look forward to it." Outside, I heard the tweeting of the first morning birds. Time truly flies when you're having fun.

"Good morning,Nick."

"And a good morning to you, too, Rose."


	4. Like A Man

Within twenty minutes of my talk with Nick, all of my belongings were neatly arranged in (haphazardly thrown into) my bag. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and besides the occasional creaking of the house settling itself, I was left utterly to my thoughts; my thoughts, which had decided to gnaw away at my conscience.

_Poor George,_ my mind hummed as I took a seat on the edge of my bed, dressed in the same suit I had worn upon my arrival and drawing imaginary circles on the comforter’s soft fabric. It was kind of odd: I had only just recently gotten acquainted with that bed, and just like that, it was to become a stranger to me again.

The same could be said of my uniform—well, it could if I had left it. Call me sentimental, but I couldn’t bear to give up the faded overalls in their entirety. With a spare box-cutter knife, I cut off the nametag that had been so carefully hewn on and packed it. It almost felt like stealing, but my heart assured me that it was mine to keep, and even if it wasn’t, the next guy (assuming Mr. Wilson could somehow entice another apprentice) wouldn’t miss it.

Ah, the next guy. It was such a sweet lie, I could almost believe it. Almost.

Another bout of guilt nipped at me, breaking the skin and making me bleed. How could I desert someone who’s shown me so much kindness? Someone who I know has no one else to turn to? Combing a hand through my hair, I resigned to figure out the answer to these questions once I had gotten some distance between me and the man in question.       

I continued to sit there, stewing in my head’s woebegone state, until the clock struck six. Like clockwork, the sound of an opening door creaked to life, though instead of seeing my all-too-chipper employer walk down the hall, it let out his considerably less pleasant wife. That morning, it seemed, she had decided to direct her unpleasantness at me.

Having spotted me sitting quietly in my room, Myrtle stalked into my room like a seething bull, face stiff and worn from sleep, arms firmly crossed under her bust. She wore an old, blood-red night gown that smelled strongly of mothballs, and her hair was a virtual nest for curlers--a part of me knew that this was the frumpiest I’d ever see Myrtle Wilson, and my neglected femininity was enjoying every second of it.

“What was all that ruckus you dared to make so early in the mornin’, huh?” she spat, seeming only half invested in the fight she had decided to pick.

"I know Georgey works you like a dog, but that's no reason to whine like a bitch." Though every sinew of my being told me I should just stay quiet like I always had, the urge to stand up at least once before I left took over me. _If I’m really leaving this place for good, then I might as well leave this sad excuse of a woman a piece of my mind, too._

“...Oh, the ruckus? Of all the people on God’s green Earth, Mrs. Myrtle, I’d think you’d be the least likely to mind a little late night ruckus. If anything, you’re just not used to hearing it under George’s roof as opposed to someone else’s.”

Her sharp intake of breath was punctuated with a sting; slapped across the cheek, I refused to empower her with even the smallest cry or whimper. Taking it like a man (pun intended), I listened to her enraged rantings with a hardly concealed smirk.

“You filthy bastard! How _dare_ you, you _pig!_ I don’t know what you’re talking about, but that’s _no_ way to talk to a lady!” she crooned, clutching at her proverbial pearls. “I can say with utmost certainty that it’s no lady that I’m talking to. A real lady chooses one man and sticks with him, come Hell or high water.”

“And just what the hell are you trying to insinuate?” I could practically feel her hand raise, rearing up to go for another indignant, southern-belle style slap. I don’t know if it was inspired by the frustration of ignoring the obvious or just the fear of being struck again, but the forbidden proclamation fell from my lips faster than I could censor them. I spoke low, in a venomous whisper, saying:

“I know you’re sleeping with Tom Buchanan, and I swear I’ll show George proof if you touch me again.”

Her lips formed a soft 'O', and the subject of our conversation chose that time to finally amble from his room, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and dressed for a full day's work. I'd be dropping yet another bomb that day.

With a good-natured grin, Mr. Wilson walked toward us and stood in the door frame. Myrtle gave me a meaningful, lingering glare before sauntering into the loose embrace of her husband, feigning nonchalance. He affectionately pecked her cheek before finally regarding me.

"Hey, pal, sorry 'bout the hold... is somethin' the matter?"

Myrtle followed George's gaze, which just so happened to be falling upon my spiffy clothes and packed bag. Taking a deep breath, I stood to my feet. "George," I began, feeling the words dry up in my mouth, "I...I want--no, I  _need_ a week off."

"A week? August, I know I said you can take some time off, but where's this comin' from? You've completely changed from when I left ya."

He was right: if I hadn't called Nick, I never would have even considered taking a break, let alone quitting. "But I-I got to think, and I've been working myself too hard. Like you said, I deserve a break, or else instances like this morning could become more common."

There was a moment of contemplative silence as George looked at me, seemingly weighing his options. Internally, I hoped that he'd just go ahead and fire me. If that happened, I'd be fully entitled to be upset with him and never return; if he was as merciful as I expected, there was no way I could desert him in good conscience. 

Alas, I did not get fired that day. Giving a long, drawn out sigh, George conceded, giving me a one week vacation. I could see the thinly-veiled disgust in Myrtle's eyes before she stomped off in a huff.

"What's her issue?" George asked offhandedly. I responded with a curt shrug; as long as that snake had learned she couldn't walk all over people, it was fine with me.

"I see you packed up your stuff up. If you're not staying here, then where are you goin'?"

I picked up the sack and slung it over my shoulder. "Oh, just a friend's place." I glance at my watch. "In fact, he should be turning up right about..."

Timely rapping reverberated throughout the house.

"Now."

  **~G~**

When George and I came strolling down the stairs, we both found the door had already been answered by a freshly elated Mrs. Myrtle.

To my surprise, the dapper visage of a handsome stranger took up most of the threshold, but lo and behold, the abashed face of none other than Nick Carraway hid timidly behind him. Nick looked downright miserable--figuring out just how much of a flirt Myrtle was, I bet--and with a wicked grin, I smoothed back my cropped hair and caught his attention with a little wave. For a moment, his eyes reflected what I discerned to be slight relief, but as he eyed me up and down, it soon morphed into an expression of anger and confusion.

I had to hide my chuckle as George and I joined the three. "Well, aren't you pair a sight? People normally badmouth the West Egg folks, but you gents just done showed me that _all_ money is good money!" The men laughed heartily in reply, and George shook hands with both Nick and the stranger.

"You flatter us too much, old sport," the stranger drawled, his southern twang both kind and charming. "They call me Jay Gatsby, sir, and this here is my friend Nick Carraway. He tells me that a friend of his has been working here?"

_Jay Gatsby..._ He wasn't a relatively tall man, but I suppose great things come in small packages; an inch or so taller than me (or, the same height as Nick), Gatsby wore a crisp, tan suit. His dirty blonde hair immaculately swept to one side, and to simply say he was attractive would be an understatement. There was a certain calm and tempered whimsy in his countenance, one couldn't help but see him and feel just a little bit better--yet, that being said, there was still something very...guarded about him. Those azure eyes held secrets, to be sure.

He had locked eyes with me once or twice, but continued his silent search for someone else: presumably, someone who better fit Nick's description.  _Good luck,_ I thought.

"Oh," the old man exclaimed, "you must be here to pick up August! My, my, I'd never think he'd be the type to consort with the, uh...the  _higher society_ types n' all." George clamped a hand on my shoulder, and though I could tell the thought of me having rich friends tickled him, his wife was less than pleased.

"No, dear, they couldn't be," she laughed, looking almost pained in her fake mirth. "Y-You see, August moved _here,_ sweetums. You don't meet such," she glanced at an ever-paling Nick and his handsome companion, " _distinguished_ young men in the Valley! I'd know..."

That's when Nick finally chose to take a step forward, clearing his throat; it was odd to see the wordsmith so flustered, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't relish every stutter. "I, uh...can say with complete honesty that...August...is the most distinguished man standing in this room. If it weren't for him, ma'am, I might not be before you today." The pink tinge in his cheeks lessened as he began to smile, giving me a mini salute (which I happily returned).

"Boy, you never said you were prior service, lad! No wonder I liked the cut of your jib!" A sense of admiration exuded from George, and I could feel the mysterious eyes of this new Gatsby character regarding me anew. At last, Myrtle could take it no longer. Whether it was because of her husband's continued praise, Nick's declaration, or the shift of the stranger's attention from her to me, but Myrtle left the room in a huff for the second time that day. Before slamming the door to her room, she hollered from the balcony, "Get that damn queer outta my house!"

"Classy," I murmured, and though I'm sure George didn't hear me (nor did I want him to), I'm sure I saw Nick and Gatsby's lips twitch upward in spite of themselves.

"As the lady has so...colorfully expressed," Gatsby said, "I believe it is time Nick, August, and I took our leave." Calmly, like he had known me for years, Gatsby waltzed over to me and slung his arm around my shoulder and led me to the door. "This 'prior service' story...you'll have to tell me more about it on the way, old sport." There was a peculiar, very persuasive gleam in his eye that made me nod automatically. I'm sure if he had asked me to strip down and sing the national anthem later, I would've nodded just the same, I was so mesmerized.

"Wait," George called, halting our steps. "Goodness, boy, I can't believe you'd let me forget!" He hurried upstairs and disappeared into his room, returning with a fat, sealed envelope. From the top of the staircase, he threw it to me, and I weighed it carefully in my hand. I had an idea of what it was, but I couldn't dare to believe it.

"W-What's this, Mr. Wilson?"

"Bah, it's George! You never learn, do you?" he chided jovially. "It's just pay for what you've done for me...for _us_ so far. Have a good break, kid."

I smiled in response, feeling a great warmth in my heart.

"I will, George."

"Not _too_ good of a break, though. Someone's gotta suffer with me, eh?" He gave me one last wink before disappearing into his room.

And just like that, what had become such a large facet of my life in a new land was over. No more carburetors, no more toil, no more long nights bent beneath a car, tinkering away and quite possibly inhaling highly noxious fumes, getting only intermittent breaths of fresh air. I had knowingly traded in my life of gristle and grime for one of high society and dangerous liaisons, but I had unknowingly left the stability of a paying job and a fatherly employer to, with Nick at my side, blindly pursue the life that filled and surrounded who I then called Jay Gatsby. I had achieved what no one else in the Valley of Ashes even thought possible: I had escaped the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg and basked in the eyes of James Gatz.

**~G~**

As Nick, Gatsby, and I sped off, a beautiful creation bloomed behind the house, growing out of darkness but ever reaching towards the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray! First milestone complete! So...love it? Hate it? Let me know in the comments, if you please!


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